"ARE YOU ALRIGHT," I said, acknowledging her weariness. Waylon was sleeping, lips moist with her milk. She seemed rightfully beat. "He's an eating machine," she said. "He never gets enough." I touched her arm. "Drink more water," I said, getting up to fetch some. Rain outside covered the street, glistening in orange lamps. I looked again through the window. It was black where tree branches started to form silhouetted by the neighbor's porch light. I stood in the dark, just breathing. I noticed Virginia creeper against the lower window. Cats came to the porch. A car engine fired somewhere down the street and a pink film topped off the street lamp's orange glow. I thought maybe I'd go to sleep. Instead I'm writing this, alone in the kitchen dark. Glass of water. A glass of filtered water. A glass of cold, filtered water. Reach through things to get to the word nature of things. From that blackness—that unknown core—return these sounds and rhythms—new relation. The night's here, a dead stone weight against the weightlessness of words.
Posted by Dale at June 2, 2004 05:33 PM